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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/23952007">Shoot First, Kiss Later</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account'>orphan_account</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Series:</b></td><td>Goldfinch AU [2]</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>Reservoir Dogs (1992)</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>M/M, au: the goldfinch</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>Completed</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-05-01</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2020-05-01</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-03 01:47:24</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Teen And Up Audiences</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>Graphic Depictions Of Violence</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>1</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>3,461</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/23952007</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
      <p>hi! second part of the "To Throw Yourself Headfirst and Laughing into the Holy Rage, Calling Your Name" series :-) pls read Two Seasons first!</p><p>this one written by my dear friend poppy (tumblr user honeychvrch) !! she is very talented and i love her very much &lt;3 poppy if u see this: mwa </p><p>cw for drug use and violence!</p><p>enjoy!!</p>
    </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Mr. Blonde/"Nice Guy" Eddie Cabot</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Series:</b></td><td>Goldfinch AU [2]</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Series URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/series/1726726</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>1</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>43</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>Shoot First, Kiss Later</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>hi! second part of the "To Throw Yourself Headfirst and Laughing into the Holy Rage, Calling Your Name" series :-) pls read Two Seasons first!</p><p>this one written by my dear friend poppy (tumblr user honeychvrch) !! she is very talented and i love her very much &lt;3 poppy if u see this: mwa </p><p>cw for drug use and violence!</p><p>enjoy!!</p>
    </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <span>“Let’s go over the plan again. One hundred percent, right?”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“We know the fucking plan. You had too much of that space-cake, you’re paranoid.” Vic says cooly, tipping his head back to blow smoke into the cold December night, the tendrils flirting with Eddie’s frozen breath. The extra inch of exposed neck peeking above Vic’s collar makes Eddie tighten his fist. Not here. Not before the job.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“We’re in Amsterdam, the fuck else did you expect me to do?” Eddie shoots back. They had spent the day touring the city’s infamous cafes, sharing joints and cosmic brownies and gummies. They had even come across a place selling ice cream loaded with the stuff, but it had been too cold for that. Now, with the high wearing off and the afterglow setting in, Eddie doesn’t know where to look. His eyes are flitting between the ground, the patchwork of stars above him and (most frequently) to Vic. He trusts the man in front of him with his heart, his life, his soul and his secrets, but there’s no telling what he would do once they stepped inside that parking lot. There’s a plan laid out in sand, of course, Joe would never let them go in raw,but there’s no stopping Vic from dragging his foot through it and going off piste, as per usual. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Vic takes one last, slow drag of his cigarette before flicking it onto the wet cobblestones. It lands near Eddie, who takes the liberty of extinguishing it underfoot for him.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>‘You ready?’ Eddie says, raising the question they’ve both been waiting for since the wheels of the plane graced the tarmac of Schiphol airport early that morning. Vic had nudged Eddie awake, whose sleeping head had fallen against Vic’s shoulder and been left undisturbed for hours until landing.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Born ready.” Vic flashes him a smile, the one he saves just for Eddie.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>The walk to the parking lot is a short one. Vic, as always, strides in front. Eddie’s steps are smaller, more urgent. He twists his rings around his fingers, the smooth metal soothing against his frantic hands. He’s not afraid of anything. He never has been. But in situations like these, with Vic steaming ahead, head hot with anger, it worries him -- he can’t lose Vic. He would sooner the people they were about to meet steal his money and shoot him with his own gun -- as long as Vic is unharmed. Every night for those four long years Vic was behind bars Eddie thought about him. Was he safe? Was anybody hurting him?  Only Eddie was allowed to do that. He had joked about it since but the thought to Eddie is unbearable. The guilt still eats away at him day by day -- four years wasted, years they could have spent together. Now that Vic is out, Eddie revels in the small touches, the soft punches, the </span>
  <em>
    <span>hard</span>
  </em>
  <span> punches, Vic’s tendency to hold his face in his hands. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>The street lamps buzz yellow above their heads, shining like misplaced halos. The cobblestones are wet and dark with the cold rain that had slashed down upon the city, turning the soft snow into dirty slush that gathered by the sides of the roads and dampened their shoes. The night is quiet and empty, the marijuana haze of the nightclubs far away, enclosed in its own world of smoke, sequins and vomit, a wonderland that for now they are forced to ignore.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>The parking lot looms above them, large and foreboding. They pause for a second outside the entrance. Eddie looks down at the briefcase in his hand, squeezing the handle in a futile attempt to ground himself, the rough leather rubbing against his palm. He looks to his left where Vic is scanning the building with a sweep of his eyes. He turns to Eddie and gives him a slap on the back that knocks him forward a step. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>The stairs are long and steep and reek of urine. Eddie wouldn’t be surprised if they came back down to find a congregation of stoners and the homeless using them as a public urinal. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Vic’s shoes make an outrageous clacking sound on the metal tips of the stairs, the noise ricochetingaround the stairwell.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Did you have to wear those fuckin’ stompers?” Eddie says, pointing down to the cowboy boots that Vic loves so much. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Why not?”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“They make so much fuckin’ noise I can’t hear myself think.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“They cost me a heist and a half, so you’ll just have to listen to it, princess.” Vic retorts, deliberately stepping down harder on the next step. Eddie rolls his eyes and swings the briefcase so that it collides with the side of Vic’s leg. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Cocksucker --” Vic says, grabbing Eddie by the collar and  holding his head out over the railing, forcingmaking him to become cognizant of the deadly distance between him and the floor. Eddie sputters in a mixture of contempt and disbelief, promoting only snide laughter from Vic.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Alright, alright! They’re the nicest fucking shoes I’ve ever seen in my life!” Eddie says, and immediately the hand around the back of his neck softens.Vic loops his elbow around Eddie’s neck and gives him a rough kiss on the side of the head.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“I know. I just wanted to hear you say it.” he says.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“‘Fuck you.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Vic kicks the door to the correct floor open and strolls in, seemingly giving no thought to the danger of the situation. Eddie knows how tricky these guys are -- not only to get hold of, but also to do business with. They were notoriously slimy and had a propensity to back out of deals at the last minute or scam their associates in some way or another. Joe had warned him about them, having dabbled briefly in the world of art, but Eddie had been confident they could carry the deal out effectively. Now, alongside Vic with that mad-hatter glint in his eye, he isn’t sure. The deal could be less of a deal and more of a bloodbath if Vic’s previous jobs were anything to go by.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>The two guys they were there to meet are slouched against their yellow sedan, baseball caps pressed firmly down, concealing their eyes. At their feet is a small, square package wrapped haphazardly in brown paper. Whoever they are, it seems as though they don’t appreciate what their package is worth. But Eddie does, and his eyes fly to it. His grip on the briefcase tightens, eager to get the deal over and done with.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Vic charges ahead, as ever.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Hey!” he calls out to the guys, who immediately straighten their spines. Vic smiles at them, but it’s a hyena smile, veiling a bloodlust lurking just under the surface of his skin. Eddie didn’t know of anybody who made affability and feral rage coexist quite like Vic could.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>One of the guys picks the package and holds it to his chest like a teenage girl with her schoolbooks. This, combined with the nervous glances the guys shoot between each other, leads Eddie to believe that these guys don't know the first thing about what they were doing. This should be easy. He lets the briefcase swing in his grip and draws to a stop just a few inches to the guys -- just to keep them on their toes, and, to be frank, because he could. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“You fellas got something for us?” Vic says, scanning the two guys up and down, barely concealing a scoff. Eddie thinks to himself that it’s like watching one of those nature documentaries where a lion devours its prey in a matter of seconds with no effort at all.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Right here.” says the man holding the package. Both men looked shockingly similar, both of short stocky stature and drenched in gaudy jewellery. He had seen many of their type waltz in and out of his father’s office, either to be used on a few jobs or killed on their first (usually the latter).</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>The other man speaks, but keeps his head down to conceal his eyes. “We want to see the money first.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Oh, you do, do you?” Vic’s sarcasm is as sharp as knives on piano wire and he raises his eyebrows in feigned surprise.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Yeah.” comes the now-quiet reply.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Vic steps closer, unfazed and unblinking. “How about,” he says “you hand over the fuckin’ package first, then we’ll talk about money.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“I, um, we --” the second man stutters.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Eddie laughs. “I, I, I-’ he mocks, “this fuckin’ idiot.” </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“We have orders to see the money first.” the other man says, evidently made of stronger stuff than his associate.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“That’s nice, sweetheart.” Vic says, taking time to deliberately remove a gleaming blade from his boot and casually flick it open, running the point underneath his fingernails.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Just hand over the package, we’ll give you this, everyone goes on their way, okay?” Eddie says, gesturing with the briefcase.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Good cop, bad cop, eh?” one of the guys mutters under his breath. Eddie only smiles, knowing exactly what happens to people who run their mouths around Vic. The buzz he felt outside returns, replacing the blood in his veins with white-hot electricity.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Good one…” Vic says. Within an instant, his blade is pressed against the guy’s throat, the tip poised to slice right through the skin. The other man panics and draws a gun, pointing it right at Vic --  big mistake. Eddie feels safe in the knowledge that this guy wouldn't dream of shooting him -- he doesn't want the trouble of cleaning the blood out of his clothes, much less the trauma of taking another person’s life for the first time.  Eddie has grown used to the sensation of squeezing the trigger and knowing the person on the receiving end would die -- robbing them of their lives, of all their years of emotions and memories,of every lover and every enemy. The first time he had taken a life he broke down in Vic’s arms, screaming until his throat grew red raw, locked in a state of violent catharsis. Now, with the barrel of a gun facing in Vic’s direction, Eddie feels the kind of red-faced, shaking anger that makes his vision dark and blurry, his eyes burning in their sockets.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Eddie’s own gun is out of his pocket in seconds and pressed directly against the man’s forehead, the barrel pressing a circle onto the skin of his forehead. The lightning-quick action evidently sparks shock in the man, forcing him to drop the package, allowing it to fall to the floor with a heavy thunk</span>
  <em>
    <span>. Fucking idiot.</span>
  </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Before he can have a chance to scoop the package back up, Eddie knocks the gun out of the stupefied man’s hand, quickly throwing it behind him so that it skids along the ground with a long, high pitched clatter. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Oh, that was just fuckin’ brilliant. I mean, what the fuck were you </span>
  <em>
    <span>thinking</span>
  </em>
  <span>?” Vic says, the point of his knife still firmly poised on his throat. Vic tips his head towards the package, laying on the ground,  forlornly abandoned.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Secure in the notion that nobody was going to try anything, Eddie picks up the package and instantly knows that something is off. A painting of this size is not meant to be so dense, so heavy -- no matter what you wrap it in. With concern rising within him at an alarming rate, Eddie tears the brown paper from the package. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>It isn’t a painting. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>What stares up at Eddie is a textbook. It burns like a hot coal in his grasp and he slams it against the hood of the car.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“What the fuck?” he yells, his voice carrying across the length of the parking lot. Without so much as another thought, or even proper aim, Eddie shoots the man in front of him, unflinching when blood bursts from his head like a rose in bloom and showers Eddie’s face in warm red liquid. His body falls against the car in an awkward slump and comes to rest at Eddie’s feet. He kicks the bleeding head, just for good measure. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>The look on Vic’s face is a mix of disbelief and elation. He turns to the man at the tip of his knife and says “You see that? We’re really not fucking around!”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Eddie, without even hesitating to wipe the blood from his face, trains the gun into the sole surviving man.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Where is it?” he asks, his voice roughening with anger, his eyes wide and wild.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I don’t know!” the man protests, “I don’t know anything!” He wears a mask of fear but Eddie senses he’s hiding something. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Vic quickly removes the blade from the man’s neck, prompting a sigh of relief and terror. The man is pale, his skin tinged with green and his body visibly shaking. Vic is about to eat him alive. He gestures to Eddie to lower his gun, who obliges. He’s excited to sit back and watch the show.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Alright, I believe you. What’s your name?” Vic asks, his tone low and sweet. The man gulps and after a moment’s deliberation with himself, sputters out, “Michel.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Michel? Hi, Michel. Hey Eddie, doesn’t Michel have such pretty eyes?” Vic asks, barely concealing a smirk. Eddie only bites his lip and nods, knowing if any sound were to escape it would come bursting forth as loud, unbridled laughter. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“You really do. It’s a shame that we can’t… see them.” Vic says, grabbing onto the man’s baseball cap and miming tugging it unsuccessfully off his head.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“This hat really is getting in the way, huh?” Vic remarks, giving it one last “pull”.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“That’s a real shame!” Eddie says, trying so hard to fight back his laughter that it made his ribs ache. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“It is, isn't it? I think we should get this hat off </span>
  <em>
    <span>somehow</span>
  </em>
  <span>.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Michel begins to whimper and shake, like a tiny, terrified little dog. At this, Vic thrusts forward so that Michel’s back slams into the hood of the car, making an awful crunching sound.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>His forearm pinned firmly against Michel’s neck, Vic looks down at him and asks once more: “Where is it?”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“I don’t know, I swear I, I --” Michel’s efforts of dissuasion are futile. He doesn’t reach the end of his stuttering sentence before Vic is once again teasing his skin with the blade, this time around the rim of his cap. With effortless cruelty, Vic digs the point into the man’s forehead, dragging the blade across in an excruciatingly slow manner, at first gliding the blade but progressing to a rougher, sawing motion, moving the blade in a circular motion around Michel’s head. Blood flows freely from the wound, pouring down his face in sheets, quickly filling his nose and mouth with a hot claret. Michel chokes on it, spitting up the blood so that it runs down his chin like grape juice from a child’s juicebox. He refuses to scream, instead snorting blood from his nose in long heavy breaths, a terrible gurgling sound emerging from the back of his throat.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>With a tight grip on Michel’s neck and a knee pressed firmly into his chest, Vic brings the knife round and joins up the wound in a jagged circle, a halo of broken skin and blood. The cap is long gone. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“So do you want to tell us where it is now?” Vic asks, running the blade underneath the severed ring of flesh.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Fuck you.” Michel grunts, spitting a fountain of his own blood upwards, drenching Vic’s face in a grotesque and slimy mixture of warm blood and saliva. Eddie stands back in shock and Vic can only laugh -- this man is made of more than they thought. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“We’ll see about that.” Vic says, digging the flat of the blade underneath the original wound and wrenching it upward in a sharp, sickening movement that makes Eddie’s heart stop in his throat. Michel gives in and screams, a thick, guttural sound quickly stoppered by a punch to the mouth administered by a cooly incandescent Vic. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>He continues to drag the blade along the wound, ripping up skin like carpet in an old house. His hands and face drip with blood but it doesn’t bother him -- he doesn’t pause even once to wipe it away. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Eddie can tell that the man can’t last much longer. His eyes are beginning to roll back in his head and he’s making small, pathetic whining sounds, like a puppy kicked across the floor. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>I heard there’s a hospital really not too far from here. You tell us where it is and we’ll even drop you off!” Vic jokes, but there’s a desperation lingering around him -- he hides it from Michel, but Eddie knows it’s there -- he knows that Vic would scalp half the men in Holland to track down the painting. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>His breath weakening and his face no longer recognizable, Michel’s resolve breaks and he whispers an unintelligible phrase.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“What was that?” Vic asks, slashing the blade with an unflinching carelessness down the side of the man’s face, opening a fresh and garish wound. Michel repeats it, albeit too quietly for Eddie to hear, but Vic nods and relinquishes his grip. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Thank you for your honesty.” He smiles and tips his head towards the dying man. Eddie knows what to do -- he places a bullet square between Michel’s eyes, his blood soaked head crunching against the hard metal hood of the car. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>The parking lot is silent for a good few moments, Vic and Eddie letting the blood and the situation at hand sink in. Vic glances back down to Michel’s body. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“That’s a real nice ring he’s got, huh?” he remarks.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“That is nice, yeah.” Eddie replies, unsure of where this is going. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Vic raises his blade once more and brings it down on Michel’s finger, severing it clean off. The dead man’s slowing circulatory system manages a celebratory squirt of blood from the wound. Vic tosses the finger in Eddie’s direction.  Reflexively, he catches it in one hand, then immediately drops it to the floor in disgust.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>‘What the fuck was that?’ He yells.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>‘A gift!’ Vic says, a shit-eating grin spreading across his face.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Putting his gun away, Eddie leans down and gingerly picks up the finger, slipping the ring off of it as quickly as humanly possible. It’s red and wet from all the blood, but once he figures that once he cleans it off it would make for a nice little souvenir.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Don’t say I don’t treat you right.” Vic says.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Yeah, thanks, Prince Charming.” Eddie says, voice dripping with sarcasm.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Okay, we gotta go.” Eddie says next, scooping up the briefcase and turning toward the stairwell. Time is no longer on their side -- somebody could come along at any minute, and one look at the bloodshed would have the both of them locked up for life. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>The night air is freezing. Vic and Eddie keep their heads down -- a suspicious pair drenched head to toe in gore would be sure to raise alarm. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“I can’t believe they pulled that shit.” </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“We cut it pretty close in there, we don’t have to go to this other place you know, we could leave it, it’s not that important --” Eddie begins, wary of the fresh danger they’re about to place themselves right in the middle of. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Of course it’s important -- it’s for you.” Vic sighs.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Vic, I --” Eddie begins. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“This shit wouldn’t have happened if it wasn’t for me. I have to get it back. For you. I have to.” says Vic, almost to himself, stopping dead in the street and turning around, placing his hands squarely on Eddie’s shoulders. That painting. That little brown bird. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Something (Eddie isn’t quite sure what) crackles between them like lightning, a clean, quiet space in the pool of blood they’ve gotten themselves into. The moment stretches eons and Eddie’s mind is shot back to all those years ago, the night by the pool beneath the stars, concrete hard against his back, the acrid taste of vodka lingering in his mouth. He moves his head forward and does what he did then -- kisses Vic with no inhibition. It no doubt leaves a sticky bloodstain but Eddie doesn’t care. Vic moves a hand to the side of Eddie’s face and that’s how they stay, in the middle of the dark street tinged with flickering yellow street lamp light, wet cobblestones adorned with cigarette butts underfoot.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Come on, or I’ll forget where the guy said to go.”’ Vic says softly, breaking away.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Alright, but I’m driving.” </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Fuck no. I drive.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Bullshit!” Eddie scoffs, delivering a swift punch to Vic’s shoulder.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Keep talking like that and you’re going in the fucking trunk.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Bloodsoaked and bone-tired, they clambered into the car.</span>
</p><p><br/>
<br/>
</p>
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